Time to Get Your Buck Smith On for the New Year

It’s the day after Christmas and a funny, completely un-holiday related question keeps tugging at my mind.  Today I’m wondering, how is your Buck Smith working for you?  It’s a curious question that almost certainly has caused you to ask in return, "Who is Buck Smith and why would I have a Buck Smith anyway?"

Well, Buck Smith is, at least in the personal history of my 85-year-old father, a fierce competitor (and often victor) of schoolyard footraces run in the 1930's South Georgia of his childhood.  On a grander scale, Buck Smith is, for all of us, a belief in ourselves, a willingness to “do the hard work” of preparing to meet a challenge and the realization that we can prevail!  And for that reason, your personal "Buck" is worth knowing

My father, with whom my sister and I have spent seemingly endless hours in hospital rooms over the past five weeks, recounted (in a feverish and sedated state shortly after Thanksgiving) the story of how he finally bested Buck Smith.  It was a story that reminded me of the cycle of believing, becoming, and benefiting.  It’s a cycle we all can choose to step into.   Today, I’m inviting you to become acquainted  (or reacquainted) with your Buck Smith.  What follows is how I suggest you prepare for your meeting – illustrated (in italics) by my dad’s story:

Believing:  In your life, you have approached something difficult – something that, upon initial consideration, caused you to doubt your capacity or ability to accomplish it.  Recall that instance.  Now remember what is was that helped you to develop a belief that you could prevail.  It may have been some positive self-talk.  You may have drawn strength from the faith or encouragement of others.  You may have read stories about individuals who approached the same task and triumphed.  However you worked it out, you likely started with an idea that “I can do this!”  My dad had challenged and lost many a footrace to Buck Smith before he got in his head that he could win.  This thought that he could win was different from thedesire to win.  No doubt at each start line, dad always wanted to win.  And he was always close – so close that he drew a crowd of believers who began to lay bets on his ability to beat Buck Smith.  A prophecy was growing and generating the energy of belief – dad not only wanted to beat Buck Smith, he was starting to believe that he could.

Becoming:  Now go back to your own past challenge.  When the ground swell of belief began to grow, you probably found that you could channel some of that energy into action.  And so a plan of practice and commitment began to foment.  Your head and heart “had your back,” so to speak – and so you were ready to put in the hard work.  What energy of becoming did you put into your plan?  As the wagers grew and my dad could see himself the winner, he put more time and effort into becoming that winner.  He developed drills and exercises to improve his start, his speed and his finish.  He practiced by running everywhere he went.  He raced shoeless around his small town on every errand and to each destination.  He was becoming that which he believed he could be.

Benefitting:  Are you firmly in touch with your own memory of accomplishment at this point?  Even if you haven’t thought about this success in a long time, the achievement is likely the sweetest part of your memory.  Any notion of doubt or specter of hard work probably fades in the richness of accomplishment.  The hard-earned “A,” the long-coveted title, the thrill of the finish or the exaltation of the summit – they are the immediate reward, which in turn produce the lasting benefit of self-efficacy.  Success creates power. That power propels us to the next challenge with greater confidence.  We identify increased willingness to step into the slightly impossible (because without ever stepping into the apparently impossible, how will we ever come to know the possible?).  So my (shoeless) dad lined up toe to shoe on a heel-scraped line etched in red clay on a late summer afternoon in the waning days of the Great Depression.  A small pack of grimy, pinched-faced, penny-ante schoolboy gamblers lined a straightaway for the 100-yard dash.  With the shout of a classmate, the race was on.  Dad, got the start he had practiced and sped down the lane with his familiar desire (now laced with belief) that he could beat Buck Smith.  With each powerful stride, he knew this was his race.  His betting pals cheered him on with the knowledge that a few coins would jingle in their pockets on the way home that night.  And as he knew he could, and as he trained for, my dad beat Buck Smith that day. 

I think this story came back to my dad late this November in an ICU room of blinking, beeping and chirping monitors to remind him that in this current challenge too, he could prevail.  He found strength in the belief that he could regain health and strength and walk out of the hospital.  He set his mind to practicing all prescribed exercises to strengthen his lungs, true his balance and fortify his muscles to walk again.  He began to talk about places he wanted to visit and foods he wanted to try.  He drew strength from having beat Buck Smith (and all of the subsequent “Buck Smith’s” in his life) and benefitted from the human power of can.  And so, after five weeks, although in a wheelchair and bound for rehab, my dad left the hospital the week before Christmas.

And reconnecting with you all now, I am encouraged to share the story of Buck Smith as a gift for the new year.   No matter how challenging that next race appears, conjure up your Buck Smith.  Consider how you have triumphed in the past.  Recall how you came to believe in yourself.  Reach back to what steps you took to prepare to prevail.  Rejoice in how that accomplishment pushed you to try the next thing.  Link arms with your Buck Smith and start now to set your goals for 2013! Sign up for a race. Plan a journey that you will come to call your “trip of a lifetime.”  Make that change at work or at home that is beckoning just beyond your comfort zone.  By next Wednesday, you’ll be swept over the hump and into the new year . . . and you won’t be alone if you choose to take old Buck with you.

For Love of Ike -- A Lesson in Creating Our Best Environment

There's no mistaking that we create our own environment.  No matter how much we may want to credit/blame external factors with our moods, our circumstances or our being, the truth always comes back to the fact that we exist in an environment of our creation.  I recently have had this conversation about "creating our present moment" with a peer coach, a client and my sister.  And as my husband and I welcome a new puppy into our household, I am reminded of a conscious choice we (my husband and I) made to create a new energy in our household nearly twelve years ago with a different new puppy.  And of the difference it made.  

Puppies are wonderful and fun and delightful -- and trying and exasperating and exhausting.  I always tell my pals with puppies to remember that it is normal to want to take them back (to wherever) within the first week.  And as I reach that point with our new little guy, I am reminded that he (and we) will thrash or thrive in the environment that we create.  I know this story well you see, at least in part, because of Ike.

It's no accident that the little dog in the adjacent photo is flying like Superman. That is ike and Ike is super.  In fact, Ike just may be perfect.  He is a twelve-year-old Brussels Griffon, who we invited to come and live with us at the end of 2000. As we made plans for his adoption, we promised to each other, and to Ike, to raise him in an environment of positive energy (only positive energy) -- and oh, how that energy filled the space of our home. Like the echoing rings around a pebble dropped into a pool of water, that little pebble of a dog has been an incredible teacher and peacekeeper in our home for more than a decade.  

I sometimes call Ike the dog who saved my life.  The story I tell around that description is that he relieved me of a sadness of loss and grief following the death of Kahlua, our fourteen-year-old Sharpei.  The true story is so much more.  It is tied to the way we, my husband and I, agreed to welcome him into our home and raise him -- of the environment we decided to create.  While we loved our Sharpei, our training methods with her were less than perfect.  This time around there would be no raised voices, frustrated responses, or end-of-a-tough-day tension delivered with any training.  We promised to create for this tiny being an environment of loving-kindness.  It turned out to be just the thing we all needed.  Life became more quiet; our noticing of our world increased in the most subtle and significant of ways. 

The change fitted my understanding of my emerging Buddhist nature.  It held the potential to transform my relationship with myself and others – all tied up in a four-pound puppy who never seemed to notice the burden of change.  He never complained that this was too much to expect of a twice-displaced Brussels Griffon (with eyes so popped that his walker once explained  to us that she feared they would escape their sockets in a burst of puppy excitement).   Ike joined us agreeably and appreciatively.  In our first two weeks together he and I formed a strong bond, thanks to a boss who allowed me to work from home during that time -- my "caninerty leave," I suppose.  Cliff and I kept our promise to create positive space and Ike filled that space with joyful awareness, which bounced back to us in the nicest of ways.

One promise I didn’t keep to Ike in the early years was to retire and spend more time with him by the time he was two.  These days, I have that luxury as I work from home, creating a  schedule mostly of my choosing.  And Ike's as happy as he’s ever been. He is my devoted and loyal partner in a journey to relax into life and find inner peace.  

And now, with the new puppy, Ike is teaching me again the lesson of creating our environment -- and of tending that which we create. 

We can all learn a lot from a dog . . .  

Postscript:  People like to ponder how "Ike" got his name.  It seems predictable that two West Pointers named Ike for a certain Five-Star General and President our alma mater produced.  Alas, it was nothing so thoughtful.  Quite simply, from the first time I saw his picture (he was an Internet baby, if you will), our Ike looked like an Ike.  With a tight little frown tucked into a tiny mustachioed face, alert ears cocked forward in anticipation and a crisp, upright posture he looked to be game for anything.  And he is.  Over the years Ike has dawned a tiny life vest to join me in the kayak, clipped into a backpack to ride on Cliff’s back for biking on the tandem and become well known to friends and merchants alike as he joins us in our travels. 

Leaders' Stories

Stories compose the richness of our lives. They are the events, experiences and activities that shape who we are and how we move into planning, decision making and interacting with others. When we think about it, we realize that most of our values have a "story" connection: recalling a parent's work ethic, a teacher's patience or perhaps the impact of an historical event.

When leaders share their values' stories with their teams, they create an environment of trust, intimacy and concern not easily accessed when values are treated rather as sterile, objective concepts. Stories help team members internalize values with clear pictures, examples and often poignant images. And stories are more easily retold as a way to share values with new team members and external clients than are complex definitions. People like to share stories. The sharing itself creates a sense of the familiar -- a connection, a feeling of being part of the inner circle. Storytelling is an important skill of successful leaders.

According to Leadership Experts, Jim Kouzes and Barry Posner (The Leadership Challenge), "Stories serve as a kind of mental map that helps people to know first, what is important (purpose and values) and, second, how things are done in a particular group or organization." The best remembered stories are vivid, "have a strong sense of time and place, and told in colorful and animated language."

My father is an expert storyteller, and one of my favorite values' stories I learned from him. It regards the value of reliability -- following through with a commitment. I am able to source this value quite directly to a story my father told me when I was a little girl. It is a story I have retold often. And, which I heard my teams share when on-boarding new staff or explaining the why of being on time, delivering "as promised," and fulfilling promises.

I'm sharing the story below (with minimal embellishments to keep it short for the blog). As you read this one, think of the stories behind your own values -- and how you'll tell them in a meaningful way to communicate personal and organizational values to your team.

My father was just 12-years old when the movie, "Gone With the Wind," was released in 1939. The oldest of seven children born to a share-cropper father and a child-bride mother, my father was not unlike many children raised during the depression -- having little and enthralled by the slightest opportunity to do, have or experience more. So, when the older brother of a girlfriend offered to include my father in the nineteen-mile car trip from Willacoochee, Georgia to the theater in the town of Douglas to see "Gone With the Wind," my father could hardly believe his luck.

Going to that movie became the most important event of his young life. Dad counted his pennies and pestered his parents for the extra ten cents to purchase the twenty-cent ticket for the show. In 1939, twenty cents was a significant amount of money -- two-thirds the minimum hourly wage and more than twice the price of a loaf of bread. Besides the cost, being gone for the afternoon meant dad wouldn't be available to help with chores or the care of his brothers and sisters. And for my father, nothing mattered more than that movie.

The driver for the trip, the proud owner of a Ford Model A,

promised to pick my father up at precisely 4:30 in the afternoon so they could be in Douglas in plenty of time for the evening show. Having no timepiece, my father headed to the prearranged rendezvous point shortly after noon on Saturday, pennies and nickels tightly bound in a piece of old handkerchief. It was late in the year and the energy of the burning Georgia sun settled hot into the clay-packed road. In dad's fist, the handkerchief was wet with sweat, the coins leaving ridge imprints along the crest of his cramped palm.

My father waited along that road throughout the afternoon and into the evening, finally using the setting sun to determine that 4:30 surely had come and gone without a passing car. When he did creep home, my father took the back roads -- embarrassed at having begged for the coins and waited half a day by the side of the road when there were chores to be done and children to be watched.

Throughout my life, the picture of that ragged little boy standing steadfast along the side of a red-clay road, coins in hand, hope broadcast on his face -- slowly replaced by disappointment and then by shame -- was the image of the expectations we create when we promise someone something. It was the story that anchored reliability as a value for me. It is rich and poignant and heartbreakingly memorable. And it has been told many a time . . .

Now, what is your values'  story? And how will you share it with your team?

Train the Puppy Brain

This week finds me in Lenox, Massachussetts attending a deep writing workshop. What this translates to is thirty to forty writers sitting in a room with a creativity coach and writing. Mostly just writing. The purpose of the workshop is to create space and provide tips to keep us on task in our writing. Most attendees, me included, are working on a particular writing project. And while the workshop is about writing, much of the coaching is universally applicable to doers of all types and to leaders.

One area that is getting a lot of attention here is dealing with the distractions (many invited) that get us off-track from our writing. In that regard, here's a nugget that really resonated for me. Thinking burns thousands of neurons. Whether it is productive thinking (see 27 Feb blog) or "why is that sock on the floor?" thinking, is irrelevant to the brain. Thinking -- all thinking -- uses mental energy. The "headline" here (as our coach would say) is, why would we "waste" neurons on distractions and worry when we are working to bring a project forward?

It's the same whatever the creative process -- to put the most mental energy forward, we need to conciously train our brains. I once heard a meditation teacher compare the human brain to a new puppy. When we aren't watching the puppy brain, it goes off and does its own thing -- to include the not so great stuff like piddling on the carpet, chasing squirrels and teething on someone's Jimmy Choo's -- translate to: engaging in negative self talk, pursuit of distractions and unproductive worry -- all of which "burn neurons."

According to our coach here at writers' camp, our brains are freshest first thing in the morning following a distraction-free night of sleep. So here's the take-away: if you have a really big project that requires some big creative thinking, you may choose to adjust your calendar to schedule that work first thing. Additionally, it may be a good idea to have your gatekeeper hold your calls and visitors at bay. And while you're at it, turn off that cell phone and the alert tone on your computer that signals the arrival of new email. These are ways to sanitize the room for the puppy brain.

At others times, when sanitizing the room may not be an option, have on hand mechanisms that bring you back to the task -- deep breathing, self awareness actioning (acknowledge your distraction and consciously come back to your task without "wondering away" from the work at hand) or simply turning away physically from the distraction (email, the window, the newspaper . . . ).

Your task today: train that puppy brain to deal with distractions and reserve those neurons for the really important thinking. Woof, woof!

Getting to good

It's been a great morning. Beautiful sunrise. Amazing workout at the gym. Connected with my sister and laughed with delight. Why is it, then, that the only thing I can think about is how I apparently aggravated the Barrista at my favorite Starbucks? For two pumps of vanilla syrup, I'm letting my great day hit the skids. What happened to all of that good stuff of the past three hours? Well, I'm giving into my negativity bias -- and neuropsychologist, Rick Hanson, would say that I'm in good (at least plentiful) company in my ability to feel badly.

According to a paper by researchers from Case Western Reserve University and published in the Review of General Psychology in 2001, we evolved to be particularly attuned to (and apparently to obsess about) the negative in our lives. From the earliest days of man, the ability to keen in on the bad (threatening, negative) was important to survival. After all, it was more important to be tuned in to the saber tooth tiger about to pounce, than to the beauty of a newly blossomed flower or a bird's sweet song -- but make that flying thing a pterodactyl and we were on alert! That negativity bias -- tendency to focus on the bad-- persists today and oftentimes obscures the good.

Let's face it, in our lives most of us truly experience more good than bad. Still, it can be a challenge to maintain a balance, let alone "get to good" when that one negative occurs. And, are you ready for it? Here's the GOOD news: it can be done. You can train your brain to recognize the good. You can rewire to positive. How? By taking time to fully experience the good. Make a practice of recognizing and appreciating the good with intention. I often recommend to clients that they start with an appreciation journal and simply recall at the end of each day three positive things for that day. They don't have to be big things (after all, little bad things certainly make an impact -- recall my coffee experience), they simply have to be recalled, then savored. A smile from a stranger. Finding my favorite fresh figs at the market. Flipping the perfect omelet. Little, and good. And of course, there are those hugely positive events too. Whatever they are, intentionally recognize them. choose to give the positive as much attention as you give to the negative. Start to sensitize your brain to the good. Look for the good -- remembering that we move in the direction we look.

Nature or nurture, indeed -- evolution is only part of the story. When we intentionally invite and recognize the positive, we can get to good.

Now, can we make that a triple, two-pump, non-fat , extra hot . . . extra happy latte, please?

Drum Signals

tone, tone, slap, slap.

tone, tone, tone, tone - slap, slap, slap, slap.

bass, tone, slap, tone - tone, slap, slap.

That's the sound of my brain growing new neural connections -- particularly in the prefrontal region of the frontal lobe. That's the part of my brain (yours too) where the executive brain functions take place. Functions such as planning, problem solving, active memory, verbal reasoning and multi-tasking.

I'm strengthening those functions by learning to play the djembe drum (tone, tone, slap, slap). The key here is not really the djembe. The key is the new learning.

In learning the djembe I am challenged by the hand positions and learning to build speed in my drumming. According to innovative thinking expert, Tim Hurson, those novel challenges can push my thinking outside of "elephant tethering" (think a huge pachyderm circling a stake to which it is tethered -- creating a deep rut) and into the productive thinking.

Not sure how to recognize productive thinking? Consider the last time you took on something completely new to you. Can you recall feeling uncomfortable, awkward and maybe even a bit uncertain? It is in that place of discomfort where the brain grows, and strengthens those executive functions. How cool that while I'm learning to play the drum, I also am charging my problem solving power and activating my memory muscles.

So whether your drum is the African djembe, a marching band bass drum or the backbeat snare drum . . . . take a listen for a new direction that will waken your productive thinking potential.

At some point, I expect I will "learn" the drum -- at least to a point when the soothing rhythm feels natural and calming to produce. I think that when it feels easy and natural, I'll enjoy my playing more . . . and then I'll look for new learning. For awhile now I've been thinking about learning to use the abacus to perform less simple math computations . . .

Thanking the Raven

I woke up this morning and gave thanks to the raven.  In his mystical, magnanimous way, he’s again stolen back the sun. Raven is bringing us the light that illuminates the still bare trees, the tiny juncos seeking ground seeds and the my little dogs’ foray into the new day.   For those of you unfamiliar with the story of the raven bringing sun, it’s a tale I heard and saw depicted in Alaska folklore and art for the eight years we lived there. 

If you’ve never seen one, a raven is a beautiful, clever, giant-of-a-scavenger bird with iridescent blue/black feathers and an almost human cry.  According to the stories of different Alaska villages, raven stole back the sun (and in some versions the stars and the moon as well) from an evil shaman who had secreted it away above the clouds – bringing cold and darkness to the earth below.  Traditional storytelling says that this is the annual gift of the raven – to bring back the sun after a long, dark Alaska winter. 

Although I no longer live in Alaska, I still rejoice as the days grow longer – and the earlier sunrise is a certain delight.  Never a night owl, I always have loved the morning best of all.  It’s my favorite time of day – and the spring is likewise my favorite season – full of hints of soon-to-be-revealed beauty, a suggestion of change and promise of new learning.

Waking happy at the prospect of every new day is a gift.  No matter what may happen as my day proceeds, I wake in joy each day.  Morning reminds me anew that I can live only in the present moment.  There’s no need to re-run the disappointments of the previous day.  There’s no value in rushing to “figure out” the future.  If I am not present for this moment, if I choose instead to rue or reminisce the past; or to rush or ready for the future, the new day pleasures will be forever gone for this day.  I will not be able to return to this moment to appreciate the sunrise through the trees, the quiet of my pre-dawn kitchen, the still-warm puppy belly of my youngest dog.   I’m not willing to give that up!

Presence is a connection that calls forth authenticity.  It beckons you out of your head and into the world.  Living in the moment you notice how you fuel your body, and eat with intention.  Living in the moment you make yourself available to others, and lead with intention.  Living in the moment you recognize your framing of the world, and open your mind to new learning.

How present are you?  Ask yourself these three questions:

• What did you have for breakfast?
• What did you notice about the world around you on your ride to work today?
• When you politely inquired of a colleague, “How are you?” what did you notice about their response?

Is anyone present every moment?  Well, perhaps the most practiced of wise- men and women, perhaps.  Thankfully, it’s not an all or nothing proposition for the rest of us, it is an opportunity we always have available to us . . . in every moment.  

Breathe, smile, awake to your presence -- and don't forget to thank the raven.

Musings From the Gym

Three days out of five I pretty much can count on seeing him on the elliptical cross trainer at the gym where I work out.  I don’t know his name.  We’ve never spoken beyond a quiet, “Good morning.”  What I do know is that he uses the downstairs cardio equipment reserved for those exercisers who are unable to negotiate the stairs to climb to the cardio loft.  His legs are pale.  His knobby knees accentuate ropy calves driving the spherical energy of the exercise machine.  He wears baggy shorts, a loose fitting t-shirt, thick glasses and a smile – always a smile.  Our eyes meet when I enter or exit the weight room and his smile is a gift I find easy to return. I don’t know the story of what must be the close to ninety years (maybe more) he has lived.  I do know that he chooses at this stage of life to remain active (and surely there must be days when he feels less inclined to show up for that workout).  His choice to stay in motion attracts and inspires me.  He reminds me that “(o)ur behavior is a function of our decisions, not of our conditions.” (Covey, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People).  

We have the power to choose our behavior  . . . in every moment.

Behavior is not dictated by conditions.  Behavior is the outcome of how we CHOOSE to respond (or perhaps not respond) to conditions.  I always smile when someone describes to me how angry (sad, frustrated, happy . . .) another person has made him or her.  Really?  How exactly did that other person get inside your head and decide for you what your response would be to their words or action?  That question usually brings first, an incredulous look, then a self-deprecating chuckle. 

Why would we consign to a situation, another person, type-model or stereotype how we will behave?  If I didn’t believe that people could choose to change, I wouldn’t do what I do.  If I wasn’t certain that people are not a product of their conditions, stories or circumstance – rather the embodiment of living fully into one’s decisions to learn, change and grow – I may question what contribution I can make as a coach.

I do believe choosing to show up, live into who we want to be – in alignment with our values – may find us on an elliptical cross trainer well beyond the years when others may expect to see us there.  I do believe we can live fully, joyously and authentically by recognizing and evoking the power of choice. 

So, how are you choosing to behave today? 

And what will you be choosing at ninety (or beyond)?

Inspirational pondering: In 2009, Sister Madonna Buder became the oldest female finisher of an Ironman Triathlon at the age of 79.  Her time was a respectable 16:54:30.

Can I give more?

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I love a plan.  Reflecting that passion, I maintain several large calendars that allow me to see multiple months of any of my plans (business, professional development, fitness) simultaneously.  In the case of my fitness calendar, I detail all of my workouts on the path to any particular fitness goal.  I take pleasure in building my fitness calendar -- carefully including factiods about my next fitness goal (location, distance, elevation profile . . . ) as well as pictures and quotes that inspire me toward my goal.  

The highlight quote on my current fitness calendar (tied to a marathon training plan) is from record-setting marathon runner, Paul Tergat.  It reads: "Ask yourself: 'Can I give more?'.  The answer is usually: 'Yes.'." 

I like this quote because it motivates me to observe the effort I'm putting into my plan overall and into any individual workout.  It keeps me in a place of intention in my plan.  Importantly, it's an observation I make, not a judgment.  That is, I check in for useable feedback, which may cause me to adjust my plan.  I'm careful not to tie a value judgment to my "can-I-give-more?" answer.  I don't set up observations to evaluate results as "good" or "bad" rather just to NOTICE useable feedback to make course adjustments that keep me moving in the direction of my goal.  

What I sometime observe with clients is a pattern of their "confessing" a missed milestone or reduced effort followed by a question of "is that bad?" or "is that o.k.?"   My response is that it is neither bad nor good, it is what it is.  What may be of value is how you use the feedback.  Can you push a little harder?  Might you go a little further?  Have you given all to the point of reduced return (maybe indicated by burn-out, injury (in fitness plans) or loss of positive emotional associations with your goal).  To answer the "can-I-give-more?" question, one must have an understanding of how objectively to observe effort, exertion or progress.  So, how do I observe effort without judging performance?  

First, I find it helpful to have a baseline understanding of where I am at the start of any endeavor.  For this example, I'll stick with the marathon plan.  I recorded my baseline abilities early on in my calendar keeping. I looked at weekly running mileage, longest (at the start of my program) run distance and miles-per-hour speed based on a one-mile time trial in a four-mile run. 

I use that baseline information when I check in on subsequent training.  Note: I also routinely use a heart rate monitor, which enables me to observe how hard my heart is working (the heart, normally linked to subjectivity, can be quite the objective organ when it comes to observing heart rate).  If I notice something is different in my planned progression, I adapt without judgment.  We all have days when we can give more -- and some days when we really can't.  Knowing how to use the answer to "Can I give more?",  helps me to stay on track, motivated and progressing toward my fitness goals.

This same approach is applicable to observing progress toward most goals -- and making adjustments "to do."  Here are the steps:

1. Observe and record your baseline.  This is observing like a scientist -- no evaluation, just noticing.  Record that baseline finding on a chart or calendar -- or in a journal.  
2. Identify tools to measure change from the baseline (or subsequent changed states) -- again, not evaluating, rather gaining awareness of what you are doing (or how much you "can give").
3. Use your "noticing" tools and record your results.
4. Consider how you can use what you have noticed (the feedback) to affect change.
5. Adapt your plan and return to step #3.

Above all -- execute the steps in a no-judgment zone.  Observe, learn and grow.

So, take a moment to think about any goal you have set for yourself.  Can you give more?   How do you know?

Getting Past Groundhog Day

Yesterday was Groundhog Day.  And, since I now reside in Pennsylvania the frenzied attention paid to the appearance of ‪Punxsutawney Phil (not to mention attention to the myriad of lesser groundhogs touted by any number of townships here in the Commonwealth) was pretty “in my face.” 

All of the Groundhog Day hoopla reminded me of the 1993 movie by the same name.  In the movie, Bill Murray is a weatherman who relives February second over and over.  The novelty in his reliving experience is that Murray alone is aware that he is stuck in a do-loop (everyone else is simply living the day).  In one provocative piece of dialogue Murray’s character, Phil, poses the question, “What would you do if you were stuck in one place and every day was exactly the same, and nothing that you did mattered?” 

Luckily today advanced on my calendar to February third, yet Phil’s question still was on my mind when I awoke this morning.

Phil’s simple-on-the-surface question really gave me pause.  How many times have any of us sat down at the end of a day and thought, “What did I do today that really mattered?” 

While I accept that what matters may occur serendipitously, I believe that what matters more often happens when we set an intention for how we will move forward into a new day.  The trick of it is in knowing what matters to us.  In actuality, any day may become Groundhog Day (a la the movie) if we are “stuck in one place.”  Getting unstuck can be hard work.  Defining what matters is part of that work.  Once we know what matters, setting an intention for doing what matters forwards action.

So, yesterday Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow.  Six more weeks of winter – each day of which I plan to live intentionally – doing stuff that I know matters.  How about you?

You may have a wellness intention around healthy eating.  Perhaps you have a leadership intention around delegation.  Whatever it is, if it really matters to you, give it voice.  Say it aloud.  Write it down.  Be clear and actionable in stating your intention.  Then do what matters.  

Groundhog Day should really come around only once a year.

Thought for the day: “There was a power outage at a department store yesterday. Twenty people were trapped on the escalators.” ~Steven Wright

Lost in Glass -- Presence in Creation

Last week I started a class in stained glass. I signed up for the class for a few reasons. I was feeling the need to expand my creative outlet.  I wanted exposure to new people.  I am interested in a stained glass screen for our over-sized (I mean seriously over-sized) fireplace and was wondering if I could make it myself.  What I got was presence – I was literally lost in glass.

Over the years the best description I ever have come upon for the experience of presence is being lost in doing (or being, of course).  When I think back to experiences when I have been totally (and seemingly effortlessly) present, it has been in the doing of some creative process.  I could tell an outwardly horrifying tale of a time when I melted down all the drywall in a hallway with a wallpaper steamer.  In the moment, the looming disaster never bothered me.  I simply stayed in creative motion by refinishing and then painting the wall.  I never fretted about the outcome.  I never noticed the time.  I was crazy into the doing – and totally present.  I celebrate the memory. 

And there are other presence experiences I recall: writing speeches all night, designing new fitness programs, making drapes . . . in each case I have tapped into my creative self . . . and in each case the common experience is losing track of time.  I become so absorbed in doing that natural curiosity overtakes self judgment.  I am curious in the process and less interested in the outcome.  When I finally do notice the time, it likely is later than I expect.  What joy pure presence releases.   And that joy hangs around like a healthy echo once the doing is done.

I know people who labor toward presence like it is some elusive, mythical creature.  The harder they look, the more perplexed they become in the not finding.  My best advice: instead of pursuing presence, try recalling it.  When in your life have you become so involved in an experience that you lost track of time?  Knowing that presence experience may help you to recreate it at times when you seek grounding and peace. 

When I meditate this week, I’m going to grind glass (in my mind's eye).  I’m going to see the color, feel the vibration of the grinding wheel, enjoy the gentle rhythm of the arc of glass smoothing to fit snuggly into my design.  I am going to celebrate presence in the joy of creating.  And I just know . . . I'm going to lose track of time.

Thought for the day:  “If you are in a state of intense presence you are free of thought, yet 
highly alert. If your conscious attention sinks below a certain level, thought rushes in, the mental noise returns, stillness is lost, you're back in time.”  ~ Eckhart Tolle

After ten years, Mark Greene still dies . . .

My husband and I are re-watching the old television series, ER.  He gave me the series in a DVD set for Christmas two years ago and we pull a season from time to time on a rainy day, when we just want to lose ourselves in a story, and re-live the events of the characters' (incredibly) rich lives.  This weekend we finished season eight.  I knew we would come to it eventually.  I was dreading the episode in which Dr. Mark Greene finally succumbs to brain cancer (the original season eight aired in 2002).  But there it was on Sunday afternoon.


This time -- ten years later -- I was able to view the story line from a somewhat more objective place (though still through tears) -- and heard more of what good Doctor Greene had to say.  One line that really resonated for me came from Greene's departing words to his nemesis, Dr. Kerry Weaver.  In the series, both Greene and Weaver were hardworking emergency room physicians who sought (and found) solace and refuge in their ER work through some of their greatest personal trials.  As Greene leaves the hospital for the last time -- too ill to work any longer -- he can be seen closing his locker in the doctor's lounge where only he and Kerry are present.  He turns to Weaver and warns her not to let her work become her life (as his presumably has -- until it is simply too late).


It's a heart wrenching scene -- and one that would leave many a professional, executive or leader squirming a bit uncomfortably.  I know it did for me ten years ago . . .


Both history and legend are rife with eulogies of people who (to the detriment of their family, health and values) gave everything to their work and tales of people who died (too) shortly after their work lives ended.


I can think of no better argument for living a full life inclusive of a variety of practices that enrich one's life and the lives of others.  You don't get a "do-over" on this one.


So, for the Greenes and Weavers everywhere, I encourage you: do not let your work become your life.  Give credit to your peers and colleagues, both by acknowledging their contributions and by empowering them to share the load.  Your success is symbolized by an organization that easily navigates your wake rather than drowns in the whirlpool of your departure.  Enrich your organization -- corporate, service, non-profit or community -- by exposing yourself to new ideas outside of work that can ignite your imagination for new solutions and inspire and excite your team.  Make time for what's important -- and work is part, but not all of it.  Be a role model in the way you give attention to your personal relationships, serve your community and attend to your health and fitness.  Your wellness will contribute to the wellness of others -- and to a better world.


After ten years, Mark Greene still dies -- because in the recorded history of television, his fate as a "workaholic" is sealed.  Yours is not.  You can make change . . . starting now.

The Being of Doing

I call myself a "doer" -- and had to wonder recently if that somehow is different from who I am (be)?  Can I be a "doer" or do I simply do?  Am I the entity or am I the action?  When change is the process (the doing) have I become a new me at the end of my doing?  One can get into that whole "to do is to be" versus "to be is to do" and who said what and what does it all mean anyway business.   Augh -- too much!

I've decided it this way.  I am a process.  I can be/do still and reflective.  I can be/do motion and action.  When I am being I am doing.  I make choices, take direction and see change -- I am still me, still doing.  I choose to be a doer of stuff.  Big stuff, little stuff, important stuff and less important stuff.  The distinction in it all, I think, is CHOICE.  If you want to tune in to choice, I welcome you to join the community of doing -- where you can do, or choose not to.  Just understand, it's a choice either way.

"Make the most of yourself for that is all there is of you."   -- Ralph Waldo Emerson